


Professor S. Winchester and the Manifold Magic of Love

by awed_frog



Series: All of Me [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Awesome Crowley, Hurt Castiel, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets his Grace back, Dean dies, Sam is fed up and Crowley is actually an expert in theoretical physics. Because, well, some days are just plain weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professor S. Winchester and the Manifold Magic of Love

**Author's Note:**

> It's really, really hard to write from Sam's POV, don't you think? Turns out you can only give it a try late at night. And when you have an essay due. Just one of those things.
> 
> The next part - quite possibly an embarassingly fluffy epilogue -will be from Cas' POV.
> 
> Disclaimer: see above.

If someone were to tell him his brother would die today, Sam would readily concede that feeling helpless, irritated and left out is really not a big deal. But Sam does not know how the day will unfold, and therefore all of that _is_ a big deal. A big, _uncomfortable_ deal, there’s the precise word for it: uncomfortable.

It has been the most _uncomfortable_ week of Sam’s life. And it turns out Sam has underestimated how annoying 'uncomfortable' is. With the life he’s had, he’s always chosen to focus on ‘painful’ and ‘threatening’ and ‘end-of-the-world crappy’. He would have gone for ‘uncomfortable’ any day - much better than the alternative, right? 

Well, actually - no. Not by a long stretch. Not that Sam wants to go back to those _other_ fun periods of his life - Lucifer stalking him, Dean being ripped to shreds by Hellhounds and the terrible high of demon blood pretty much top the list - definitely not. Not at all. But still, what is happening right now is not much better, because Dean is still cursed, still dying, actually, as is Cas, and on top of it all there is this thick layer of general unpleasantness and nobody seems to know anything about anything.

And Sam is fed up. Really, really fed up.

Mostly because Dean has attained unprecedented levels of bitchiness. He’s basically spent the past week cussing at Sam or drinking, or both. When he’s left his room, that is. He’s displayed zero interest in finding a cure, having any kind of human interaction or, as far as Sam can see, surviving at all.

And Sam hates him for it, not only because Dean is his brother and he loves him, but also for what this awakens in him - the viciously unwelcome thought of what would happen _if_ \- because there is something very ugly living in the back of his mind and it’s whispering to him, it's suggesting that his brother is the only thing keeping him, Sam, into this life; that without Dean, he could become the person he’s always imagined himself to become. The thing is dark and slimy, and it knows exactly where Sam could continue his studies, apply for a Ph.D.; actually, it can even describe in puzzling detail the layout of his future office, the shiny plaque on the door ( _Professor S. Winchester_ ). Sam hates the thing. He really does. And with Dean acting the way he is, well-

As for Cas - Cas has been in a bad mood as well, though he’s tried to be decent around Sam. He’s reverted back to angel mode - one-line sentences, smity eyes, downturned mouth - and he’s shrugged off his humanity one hundred per cent. No more puppy dog looks, no more stealing candy from the kitchen, no more half-smiles and occasional _Star Wars_ quoting (always at the wrong moment, because good timing is something about human culture that Cas still doesn’t get). No, having him around has been no comfort whatsoever, because Cas just spent the entire week in the bunker’s library, practicing on his best impression of a pod person.

Sam has stopped asking him about Metatron, and about his Grace. Talking to Cas when he doesn't want to talk to you is like trying to communicate with a particularly retarded pigeon. Or an owl, maybe. Something feathery, uncooperative and potentially, surprisingly badass.

And what Sam is hating the most about all of this is not even the loneliness and the cold waves of disappointment and resentment surging up from all sides - what gets to him, always, is this feeling of being left out. He used to feel that way as a kid, a lot, because he never managed to attend the same school for very long, and every couple of months he’d walk inside a new classroom and he’d be completely unaware of everything going on - who was nice, who wasn’t, who was crushing on whom, who was likely to try and steal his lunch money. And he’d always liked studying, really, but that had been another reason to worry - would the teacher start on a subject he knew nothing about? Would the other kids make fun of him because of it? Sam would spend hours worrying himself sick before starting in a new place, would stay up all night going over his books, repeating past lessons, fretting about what everyone would be like. Doing his best not to wonder how it would feel to have a real house, a doggie, and a Christmas tree in December. He’d learned it was better not to ask these questions, but he could not stop himself from imagining this other life which was just beyond his reach.

All in all, it had been a very _long_ childhood.

And Sam isn’t stupid - he realizes that his love for research and his compulsion to know everything are partly rooted in his need to help out that child; he knows that sometimes he overdoes it. He knows he should get over those stupid memories, knows the fight Dean and Cas are having right now has nothing to do with him, but he’s still upset about it. His brother has been the one good thing in his life since - since forever, and the fact that Dean is shutting him out is really starting to get old.

So, all in all, it’s a good surprise when Dean comes out of his room one afternoon, almost clean and almost shaved, and pokes his head into the library.

“Let’s go,” he says, curtly, and Sam is so used to respond to this command that he stands up and grabs his phone before stopping in his tracks.

“Go where?”

“After Cas.”

“Wait, isn’t Cas-”

Sam looks around, and realizes, for the first time, that Cas’ desk is empty. All the books he was looking at have been stacked in a corner in a neat pile. The angel is gone.

“Where would he go?”

“It’s Thursday,” says Dean.

Which, Sam is about to point out, isn’t really an answer to anything. But Dean ignores him, walks on, takes his own phone from his pocket, fiddles with it.

“Come on, then.”

“Wait, what-”

“Come _on_ , Sammy.”

Sam stares, but his brother is not even looking at him - he’s already out of the room, and Sam, cursing under his breath, follows him.

“Do you even _know_ where Cas is?”

They are in the garage now, and Dean actually smiles - a very small, very distorted smile, but still - when he sees the Impala waiting for them in the corner.

“Parental control,” he says, showing his phone to Sam and moving to open the door. “I put a tracking app on Cas’ phone.”

“You - what?”

“Look, he’s been weird and fidgety this last week-”

“I don’t know how you would have noticed that - did you install cameras, as well? Because I haven’t seen the two of you in the same room for days-”

“-and it’s obvious what’s going on - he needs to get his Grace back-”

“Yes, and Crowley said it’s a very bad idea to be with him when he does-”

“Fuck Crowley,” says Dean, almost pleasantly.

He slides into his beloved car, starts the engine, and Sam has to hurry to the passenger side and climb in. He has the definite feeling Dean wouldn’t wait for him, not for this, whatever this is. As they drive out into the fading sunlight, Sam steals a worried glance at his brother, then has to do a double-take. Dean is _smiling_. It’s not a _happy_ smile, or anything, but still. And in a way, it’s not even unexpected, because Dean is like a dog, or a baby (lately, a very scary and tantrum-prone baby) - just take him for a drive, and he’ll be fine. And, really, Dean seems - well, not cheerful, but almost functional.

Until the illusion is shattered, that is. Until Dean says, still in that artificial, pleasant voice, “Stop staring at me,” and Sam has to forcibly relax his hands on his knees because his first response to that kind of voice is to go get a shotgun.

And since _shooting_ Dean is not actually an option, no matter how much of an annoying jerk Dean has been the whole week, Sam takes a deep breath and goes back to their current problem.

“Of course. Fuck Crowley,” he says, warily. “So, where are we headed?”

“Believe it or not, not very far from here. Remember that big-ass church they had to close down because the roof was leaking?”

“Why would I?”

Dean scoffs.

“And you’re supposed to be the smart one. Rule number one, Sammy - when something weird happens in your neighborhood, check it out.”

“Well, _excuse me_ , but I’ve had more important things to do than checking out leaking roofs. Things like, finding a cure for my brother?”

“And how is that going?” says Dean, and, again, this is that relaxed voice of his which implies he’s two seconds away from punching someone.

“Just - let’s not go there, okay? Just tell me what’s going on with Cas.”

“Well, funny thing about this church,” says Dean, drumming his fingers lightly on the wheel. “They keep calling in carpenters and city council employees, but no matter what they do, the next day there’s a pond emerging from the floor.”

“A pond?”

“Yep. I’ve seen a picture - very pretty.”

“Pret-”

Sam shakes his head, tries to clear it.

“But where is it coming from?”

“They don’t know. It’s just there. Guess when this started, though.”

“You’re not saying-”

“The day the angels fell.”

“So you think-”

“Yes. What else? Anna said lost Grace would look like something natural, right? And our common _friend_ ,” he adds, with something of an unnecessary emphasis on the word ‘friend’, “is the angel of tears, isn’t he? Didn’t you check all that crap when we first met him?”

“I did. He is. So, water. Makes sense. So you think - and he’s there now?”

“I think he still doesn’t know how to get it back, but he can’t wait. Because he’s dying, maybe. Or he’s just an idiot. Hard to tell.”

“Dean-” starts Sam, but then Dean turns to look at him, and Sam doesn’t finish his sentence.

Outside the window, the day is all shades of glorious. Mostly sunny, with a couple of fluffy white clouds, the kind you could imagine angels perching on, if you were not a Winchester and you could still imagine angels as plump naked children with harps. Instead, they are dicks, as Dean would say. And, sometimes, incredibly badass and loyal dicks, with the right amount of innocence and sass and eyes so blue you could drown in. Because, well, Sam is not actually stupid. He's always had his doubts about this, and he heard enough of Crowley's and Cas’ conversation to fill in the blanks. So, well, he’s kind of guessed that for all his heterosexual pride and distrust of supernatural beings, Dean has gone and fallen for an angel. Not that, Dean being Dean, one can be sure of anything. But, well, one can guess. And here, here there is a horrible part of Sam that actually feels _vindicated_ , because, well, all that bitchiness about Ruby and yet - and yet nothing, because Dean was right about Ruby, amends Sam immediately, taking control of his own thoughts again with a pang of shame, because Ruby was an evil, evil bitch. Cas, on the other hand, is Cas. He and Dean have been sharing this ‘deep bond’ for a while now. There has been a lot of staring over the years. From both sides. But, well, judging from last week’s conversation, Cas doesn’t want to go any further. Maybe he doesn’t experience feelings in the way humans do. Maybe he can’t have sex, for some reason. Or won’t.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, to distract himself from this train of thought, which feels disturbing and disloyal.

“We go in, we save the angel, we come out again,” says Dean, and he actually turns the radio on.

Sam turns it off again.

“Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Look, this Grace thing is bound to be hidden, somehow. There will be danger involved, because the world is bitchy that way. And Cas can be pretty useless on his own,” he adds, almost viciously. “So we go in and bail him out.”

And, again, all Sam can do is to keep his eyes glued on the landscape in front of them and keep his mouth shut, because really - how much of an idiot can Dean actually _be_? Sam knows what his brother is like - that cocky self-confidence, and his Tourette attitude to every danger and every monster they face, but - well, _before_ he was actually _smart_ about it, he would - _plan_ , or something. Sam is so good in keeping his mouth shut he can actually feel his teeth grinding. Because, well, Dean has been a bit weirder (a lot weirder) since this whole Mark thing, but what he’s suggesting is basically suicide - to get right in the middle of some magical protection they know nothing about - to walk in on an angel who could blow up at any second-

“Got a problem with that, Sammy?”

“No,” says Sam, but it feels wrong, just plain wrong to encourage Dean, his brother, in this reckless suicidal mission, and he can taste the right words under his tongue, _But we should stop somewhere, do some research first, find out what is actually -_

And before he can voice any of that, the wind raises, and all the fluffy white clouds suddenly stretch and darken, and they turn into stormy ugly things.

Dean leans forward, a frown on his face.

And then the noise starts, something a normal person could mistake for wind, but Sam knows immediately this is not natural - it’s a lonely, desolate kind of cry, and it just -

“What the hell?” says Dean, and he looks almost scared.

“Actually, no. That’s what angels sound like,” says a voice from behind them, and Dean almost swerves off the road, then glances up at the rear-view mirror, and Sam turns around in shock, and _Crowley_ is just _sitting_ there, as though he belongs, looking as bored and elegant as he always does.

“You know, when they are somehow - indisposed,” he adds, when he sees them both staring at him.

Dean goes back to their previous speed. Which was too fast. He’s still glancing up at the mirror every few seconds, and he’s about to be as angry as he can be.

“Keep talking,” he says, flatly, as if he actually expected Crowley to show up, and now Sam is uncomfortable, because how can the _King of Hell_ just pop in whenever he feels like it (has Dean actually scratched off the demon-banishing sigils?) and since when are they actually _friends_ with demons, that never ends well, and Crowley _hates_ him, he _must_ , after the blood injections and -

“Just keep driving. I’m sure you know where you’re going.”

“Have you cleared out the town?” Dean asks, pressing his foot on the gas, and, again, Sam just wants to jump in because _what the hell_?

“I have. You owe me for that, by the way. Keeping an eye out for stray angels is my job, but evacuating more than a thousand people is not.”

“Send me the bill,” says Dean roughly. “How bad is it?”

“Um, Dean?”

“The situation is...complicated. We’ll need to take a closer look.”

“Dean?”

“Why haven’t you already?”

“What part of ‘not my job’ can’t you understand?”

The wind is louder now, is starting to touch something inside Sam, like there’s something really, really wrong going on here. And the look on his brother’s face is just-

“Dean, what’s going on?”

“Shut it, Sammy. Crowley, I don’t care what your job is. Just go on ahead and find out how we can stop this.”

There is a loud sigh from the backseat, and then silence. The demon is gone.

“I called Crowley, okay? Before I came to get you,” says Dean, aggressively, his knuckles practically bloodless on the wheel. “Because I knew Cas was going to do something stupid. And he has. He’s trying to undo this - this thing, this spell, whatever the fuck it is - on his own, and-”

“Okay. Okay. I am not saying we shouldn’t help, I’m saying - Dean, _Crowley_?”

But Dean looks downright murderous now, and Sam decides to just shut up, thank you very much, because he actually likes his small intestine right where it is, all curled up nice and easy inside his belly. So he looks out of the window instead, watches the open countryside become a small town dotted with picket-fenced houses, tries to ignore the mounting darkness around them.

And Crowley was right - Dean seems to know exactly where he’s going. He gets them to the church on the first try, like he’s been here before, and when they get out of the car Sam sees the church is not really a church, it looks huge, sort of a cathedral, all big and tall and slightly run-down around the edges. And there’s something else he sees straight away: the town is, indeed, empty. Nothing is moving. At all. It’s actually creepy - there are no birds, no stray dogs, nothing at all. He turns around again with a slight frown and sees that Dean and Crowley are standing in front of the church. The huge wooden doors are closed, and Dean is pushing against them, to no avail.

Crowley does not glance at Sam as he joins them. He keeps his eyes fixed on Dean, and he speaks very, very slowly, as if repeating himself.

“It’s not very sophisticated. Just a tiny bit of blood magic. It’s runes, and someone has to step inside the circle and bleed on them to get them open. That’s all there is to it.”

“Bleed on them,” says Dean, and, again, Sam feels like he’s missing half of the conversation.

“So what is wrong, then? If it’s so simple?”

And, well, foolish to even feel this way, but here is Junior Prom all over again, because Crowley actually answers Sam’s question, but keeps ignoring him; he looks at Dean, instead, still in that careful, calculated way.

“It has to be human blood. Cas’ Grace has been so close to failing him completely, he probably thought he was as close to a human as he was ever going to be. Or maybe he’s just as much as a moron as I always thought and he decided to wing it. I really wouldn’t know. He’s _your_ angel, after all,” he adds, and now he’s speaking directly to Dean again, and his brother’s face has gone from stony to downright scary.

“Open that door, Crowley.”

“Are you sure?” says the demon, and these simple words, and the way they’re spoken, open a dam in Sam’s mind.

He’s been so _stupid_. So _blind_. Because all of a sudden it’s perfectly clear, all of it. The spell is activated by human blood, but, what did Crowley say, Cas will go _nuclear_ when he gets his Grace back. Which means that whoever steps inside the circle isn’t expected to come out again. Such a spell would never work on a demon, of course, but an angel would think twice before sacrificing another life to save their own, and Cas would never consider the idea at all. Cas would rather die in there. And his brother-

Sam is such an idiot. He’s been guessing, tiptoeing around the issue, telling himself he’s gotten it wrong. He’s been so sure, so _sure_ his brother would never look at a man, not like that, that he’d managed to brush off literally _years_ of longing looks and broken-off conversations between Dean and his personal angel. 'Deep bond'. _Right_.

Instinctively, he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“There must be another way,” he says, and he has to raise his voice, because the wind is howling louder now, and still there is pain at heart of it; plain, raw, _violent_ pain.

“Open the fucking _door_ , Crowley,” growls Dean, and the demon puts his fingers against the wood and just pushes, and the whole gigantic thing comes off its hinges and caves inwards.

The church is a mess. All the benches have been blasted against the walls, the tall stone pillars are scorched and blackened, and in the middle of it all-

Sam blinks.

Cas is on the floor on his hands and knees, and all around him there is a complex arabesque of glowing letters. They criss-cross and dance around each other, glowing a bit in the gloomy room, and beyond the borders of the circle there is water - a large pool of clear blue water, lapping at the letters, trying to get in. Cas’ Grace.

“Cas!”

Dean starts forward, and Sam is about to follow him when Crowley places a hand in front of his chest.

“You touch that water, you die.”

“What? But Dean -”

“I said you as in 'you', Moose. Your brother will be fine.”

Sam knows at once it is the truth, but he still ducks around Crowley and follows Dean, remaining a few steps behind him. He sees his brother reach the edge of the pond, sees him hesitate.

“Cas!” he calls out again, and the angel raises his head, very slowly, seems to notice them for the first time.

“Stay back,” he says weakly, and Sam can’t believe this is really his voice - it is barely there now, the pitch much lower than his usual sandpaper growl.

As Cas turns his head and looks at them, Sam sees he’s bleeding. The lower half of his face is completely red with it, and there are streaks of blood on his shirt and coat.

“No chance,” bites back Dean, but he eyes the water a bit warily, as if unsure about what he should do next.

Then, before Sam can think about anything to say, Dean toes his shoes and socks off, and steps into the pond.

Nothing happens.

From Crowley’s cryptic warning, Sam was expecting much worse.

“What now?” he asks the demon, but Crowley doesn’t answer. He’s got this look on his face, like he’s doing math in his head, and at the same time he gives off a weird vibe - a twisted, sorrowful wave of complicated feelings.

“Dean, don’t-”

But Dean has reached the edges of the circle now, and he pays no heed to Cas’ weak order, and something in his voice fills Sam with urgent dread.

“What happens? If Dean goes through with it?”

“The spell breaks. That’s what happens. Aren’t you the smart one?”

“I meant - aren’t we too close? If Cas recovers his Grace? Didn’t you say-”

Sam falls silent and they both watch the scene unfolding in front of them. Dean is still walking towards Cas, a bit gingerly, trying to avoid, Sam guesses, the glowing letters on the floor. And the angel is still kneeling, but his eyes are following Dean’s movements, and he’s taking rapid, shallow breaths. Now they are closer to him, Sam has no difficulty connecting the weird wind around them to Cas - no trouble understanding exactly that what he’s hearing is the angel’s profound distress, his physical pain. He watches in horrified fascination as Dean gets down on his knees next to Cas, passes his fingers, once, very lightly, through the angel’s hair.

“Always the last to find out things, eh, Moose?”

Sam can’t even answer. There is such beauty, such _love_ in the simple gesture - he’s not going to cheapen it by getting into a fight with Crowley. And because of the jumbled mess of his own feelings, he doesn’t fully realize what will happen next until things _do_ start to happen and it’s way too late to stop them.

Dean unsheathes his knife and turns back to look at them.

“You keep my brother safe, you hear me? You owe me that, Crowley.”

“What? Dean - wait!”

And Dean looks at him, very fleetingly, and he smiles, the first real smile Sam has seen on his face for weeks, because this is not the childish, alcohol-fuelled joy from last week, and it’s not his brother’s burger-smile, his pie-smile. This is pure, clean love, it’s a smile that says, _Everything will be alright_ , and Sam starts to run towards the runic circle in front of him, because it is not true, _nothing_ will be alright, not when Dean is about to-

And then Sam is tripped and falls down, Crowley crashing down hard on top of him. He tries to fight him off, but it’s like hitting a wall. He shouts and swears and turns his head to look back at Dean - he sees the naked blade in his brother’s hand-

“Hang on, Moose. This is going to hurt.”

“What -”

Crowley doesn’t even bother opening his shirt: he knows exactly where the tattoo is. He simply puts his hand on Sam’s chest and just pushes, and there’s a flash of scorching heat, and then the horrible, horrible smell of burning flesh - and Sam yells out in pain.

“Don’t fight it,” says the demon, and Sam has barely a second to react before red smoke erupts from Crowley’s mouth and everything disappears.

It’s like being knocked out - there is dull ache, and darkness, and perfect stillness, and then Sam blinks and finds he’s standing exactly in the same place - he sees the church around them, Dean and Cas in the middle of it - and Crowley, standing very close to him and managing to look a bit bored with it all.

Everything is the same, and yet everything is different. Things seems _sharper_ now; _clearer_. The colours around him are different, and the sound in the wind now makes complete sense - it’s still not words, or anything like that, but Sam can now understand exactly how and why the spell is destroying Cas, and he recoils at the strength and maliciousness of it. Keeping his eyes on his brother, he tries and fails to understand what the hell is going on.

“What did you - did it not work?”

“Of course it bloody _worked_. Who do you take me for?”

Crowley points at something behind him, and when Sam turns he sees a second Crowley sprawled out on the floor, a blank, unseeing look on his face.

“Is this - how can you be - are we inside my mind, then?”

The demon cocks his head to one side, seems to consider the matter.

“Yes and no. It has to do with how the universe is shaped and how your soul’s electrical impulses travel through it. Or _them_ , if you accept the chaotic inflation theory. Personally, I dislike the name, but as a theory it goes some way towards explaining why our joint consciousnesses can withstand whatever an angel can throw at us.”

This is so completely surreal, Sam can’t even -

“What?” says Crowley, and now he looks offended. “I had some free time in the 50s, and happened to swing by Princeton to see what the fuss what about. I ended up living with Hugh and Charles for a bit, wrote a few papers with them, but then I got bored. Politics is much more down my alley.”

And now Sam changes his mind again, because suddenly he would give anything, _anything_ , to get back to just ‘uncomfortable’. Suddenly ‘uncomfortable’ is perfectly fine - hanging around the bunker, Cas’ familiar presence in the library, Dean emerging for more whiskey every few hours - all that was just _great_ compared to what’s going on now.

“Hugh Everett and Charles - Charles Misner?” he says weakly, because it’s much easier to focus on this, on the out-of-the-blue, weird-as-hell revelation that Crowley was in Princeton working on multiverse theory with two of the best physicists in history, anything other than -

“Dean, it’s too dangerous,” whispers Cas.

It’s barely there, not even a voice anymore, but Sam can now hear the way Crowley, freaking _Crowley_ does, so Cas’ words carry easily in the darkening, cavernous room. “You could die.”

“So bring me back,” says Dean quietly.

“Something could go wrong. I could be weakened, incapable to revive you.”

“I don’t care, Cas.”

“Dean, I-”

And now Dean and Cas are looking at each other, and, really, Sam doesn’t know how he ever mistook this for anything else. From where he stands, he can only see Cas’ face, but there is something in those blue eyes, almost shining out of them -and then Cas reaches out and pulls Dean down into a kiss, a proper thing, a passionate thing - there is a tangle of hands, and their faces are so close together it looks like it must hurt. And despite everything, Sam still stares when he realizes that Dean - Dean is freaking kissing him _back_. They will, Sam decides, have a conversation about this, after, at some point, because there is no way Sam is not going to have a conversation about this with his brother - they’ve been together, they’ve slept in the same room, for all their lives - how could he not know that Dean -

“Need some bleach for your eyes, Moose?” asks Crowley from behind him, and Sam can hear the smile in his voice.

“So you knew, then?” he asks him, but somehow he’s not even surprised.

“You didn’t?”

“I - I suspected. Sometimes. Sort of. But Dean has always been so -”

Sam looks for words and can’t find them. And he doesn’t want to stand here and talk feelings with the King of Hell, anyway, because Dean was always a sneaky bastard - he’s taken advantage of the kiss to cut himself without Cas noticing, and as soon as his blood drips on the runes the wind roars and stops, and the water rushes inward, coils around the two of them like a tidal wave -

An explosion of blinding white light, and Sam falls back against the pillar behind him, hits his head, blacks out for a second, and then he smells sulphur, a big, strong flare of sulphur, and he starts coughing.

“Is that you? Are you hurt?” he asks, turning around, reaching towards Crowley.

The demon is kneeling next to him. He seems a bit stunned, like he hit his head as well.

“I’m touched, but no,” he says Crowley, and Sam still can’t read the blank look on his face, but his voice - he sounds - he’s trying to sound annoyed, but he sounds - _awed_ , there is no other word for it. “That wasn’t me,” he adds. “I think it was - I think it was the Mark.”

“The Mark?”

“The Mark of Cain has a demonic presence, a life of its own,” says Crowley, a bit distractedly. “If Dean’s been hit hard enough, angelic Grace would melt it off him.”

Crowley’s words seems to take a long time to reach him. Sam can understand the only reason he’s survived the explosion is the fact he’s sharing his body (his soul?) with Crowley, but his mind refuses the take the next step.

“Hard enough?” he hears himself say.

The light fades, but the smell of sulphur still lingers, and just underneath there is the fainter trace of burned grass. The silence is so profound and complete, everything so still, that for the first time, Sam notices that neither Crowley nor Cas are breathing - and, as he realizes that, he becomes aware of the deep, deafening silence coming from his brother. Because Dean is lying on the floor, one arm reaching out towards Cas, his head thrown back - Sam can see the side of his neck, and there is no pulse there - Dean is - Dean is-

And before Sam can think about anything, before the huge wave cresting behind him can come down and drown him, there is a roaring yell of pain and loss, and the huge cathedral fills with light once again. Forgetting that he is not supposed to look, Sam shifts his gaze to Cas, and he sees the angel changing and growing before his eyes. The familiar silhouette of Jimmy Novak is still kneeling on the floor, its trenchcoat and blue tie looking ludicrously out of place now, because behind it, or maybe from it, a pillar of light is rising. It explodes out of Jimmy Novak’s body, it twists and turns in agony, and Sam has to cover his ears when the booming sound of desperate yearning gets so loud it will surely be heard from miles around them, flatten every tree and every house in a fifteen-mile radius. So Sam covers his ears, not that it does him any good, but he can’t tear his gaze away from the wondrous sight - it’s the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, and bloodcurdlingly _frightening_ thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, and he knows, he feels it in his bones, that he will never see anything like this again. This, he knows, is the unfolding of Cas’ true form. Blinding light, huge wings which fill the entire cathedral with wind and thunder, and a gigantic body, a hundred feet tall - Sam can’t make out the lines of it, it’s way too bright, but he sees he’s still crouching, kneeling over his brother, the wings coming down the shield his body-

“He’s losing control,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth.

Like Sam, he’s staring at the figures in front of him, though he’s brought a hand up, in front of his face, and he’s shielding his eyes.

Sam can’t react to his words - too much is happening, and there is such divine grace in the angel in front of him that Sam can’t do anything, can’t really think, he can only stay where he is and wait to be blown away by the sheer strength of it.

“He’s losing control,” repeats Crowley. “He will bring the damn roof down on us.”

Sam is still blinking at the figure in front of him, and he doesn't even hear Crowley sighing in exasperation.

"Look at the bloody _roof_ , Moose," the demon says, and then there is a shuffling sound as he crawls closer to him and grabs his chin, forcing him to look up, up towards the beams of the roof, half cracked and filled with light.

“What - what happened?” Sam manages to stammer. He closes his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, trying to wake up, to ground himself.

“He couldn’t bring Dean back. Your brother’s soul is beyond his reach, and he’s going crazy with the pain of it. Stupid moron,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“So Dean is - he’s really -”

Sam cannot finish this sentence. He knew this was a possibility, he’s known this was a possibility since he was twelve and he saw a vampire sinking his teeth in his brother’s neck, and Dean dying, the curse of the Mark, that’s all he’s been thinking about for days, weeks, but still -

“Not necessarily,” says Crowley, a bit shiftily.

And just like that, the spell is broken. As it happens during the worst, most difficult hunts, when he feels close to the brink, Sam is able to focus, push everything in the background. He’s still aware of the creature of light behind him, feels its divine presence in every inch of his body and soul, but he turns his face to the demon in front of him and sets his jaw.

“What do you mean?”

“You can make a deal. With me. Right now.”

Dean would _kill_ him, Sam knows this. He’s certain of it. If there’s _one_ thing he knows about his brother, this is it - what’s dead stays dead. No more deals with demons. But this is not just about death, thinks Sam, this is about giving his brother a chance to fully live, and even more than that - there is something heart-wrenchingly wrong about how it all went down - Sam knows full well angels have a tendency to be dicks, that in a way, they are no different from demons - but, all the same, it doesn’t matter who they are and why they act the way they do - now he’s been blessed to see Cas’ true form, there is something else that Sam knows with absolute certainty: this pain devouring him has to stop. Angels were not supposed to feel, to experience loss, and if Sam doesn’t do anything, this - losing Dean - it will destroy Cas, burn him to the ground. And God would never forgive Sam for allowing this to happen. Never. Hell, Sam would never forgive _himself_.

“What do you want?”

“You both can live your lives, I promise you that. I won’t come after your souls, I won’t kill you or harm you, and I won’t claim you for Hell after you’re dead. I’ll leave you free to make your own choices. Boy scout's honour.”

That’s no answer at all, and Sam asks it again, aggressively, hurriedly.

“What do you _want_?”

Crowley hesitates, looks sideways.

“I want your blood,” he says, bluntly.

“My - my _blood_? How would that work?”

“We don’t have much time,” spits Crowley, pointing at the scene unfolding in front of them. “It will not harm you, I can promise you that. Can you trust me?”

And this is a stupid question, isn’t it, because the answer is, the answer _must_ be, _No - no, I can never trust you, because you’re a demon, you’re the King of Hell, and it’s your job to cut me open and flay me alive_. And it’s right where it should be, on the tip of Sam’s tongue. It really is. But then he makes a mistake - he looks into Crowley’s eyes, and suddenly there, right there, is the other side of it all - every time Crowley has saved their lives, how he healed Bobby, and he tried to stop Cas from blowing himself up, and mostly, mostly the way he looks at Dean, and even, sometimes, at Sam himself, that long-suffering, fond look. Crowley’s had thousands of opportunities to kill them both, and he’s never done so. Crowley has protected them from his own kind; his own blood. And Sam knows he has bad instincts, knows demons are his destiny and his weakness, but he’s not ready - he will _never_ be ready - to lose Dean.

“And you will bring him back?” he says, roughly.

“I will. Come on, Sam.”

It’s the way Crowley uses his name, and it could be a salesman’s trick, it may very well be, in fact, the first trick in the book, but Sam doesn’t care. His instincts are bad, but his heart has always been in the right place, and that will have to be enough.

“Yes,” he says, “Do it,” and he reaches out, fists his hands in Crowley’s shirt, closes the distance between them and crushes his lips against the demon’s.

It feels weird, of course it does - the beard against his skin, the low chuckle, the slow smile. Crowley puts one hand behind Sam’s head, almost gently, teases his mouth open, nibbles his lips; and when he licks them, only just, Sam shakes his head and wrenches himself free.

“That’s far enough,” he says, his heart beating fast.

“Sorry. Demon,” answers Crowley, smiling widely; and then, keeping a firm hold on Sam’s arm, he turns around, starts to get up.

“OI!” he shouts, but there is no reason for him to, because the first, faint moan from Dean is enough to change everything.

Before Sam can blink, there is no more wind, no more light. There is only Cas, kneeling on the floor, reaching out, tentatively, towards Dean, and Sam hears his brother’s voice, very soft and a bit rough.

“Was that you, with all the yelling? I thought I’d asked you to keep the volume down, Cas.”

“Moron,” says Crowley, almost fondly, as Cas reaches out, touches Dean’s face with a shaky hand, lets it fall again. “Should have gone in for a kiss. No sense of timing. At all.”

“Speaking of which,” says Sam, and he gets up as well, turns around, because what is happening between Dean and his angel feels very, very private, “You should get out.”

“Should I?”

“ _Now_ , Crowley.”

“You’re no fun,” pouts the demon, and Sam almost blacks out, staggers, and the next second he’s himself again - weak and shaken, but whole.

He steadies himself against the pillar and looks down at Crowley.

“Care to explain the details now?”

“Let’s get out of here first. All this excitement - I feel I need a glass of something.”

“Um-”

“Stop fretting, Moose. It’s a win-win situation, really, when you think about it. On the long run, you won’t have any of Azazel’s blood left inside you, and I - I will probably become a bit stronger, and bit more human. A good scenario for everybody, all in all.”

Sam is about to ask why on earth Crowley would want to become more human, but just then Crowley turns away from him again, looks at the two figures hugging on the church floor, and Sam keeps his mouth shut. Demons can’t love, not fully; Ruby had told him as much. And maybe it didn’t matter to her, but Crowley is not Ruby. He’s much smarter, for one. Maybe, possibly, and this is the dark and slimy thing in Sam’s mind talking, only now it’s not dark or slimy anymore - it’s just this fluffy, warm feeling, because everything is alright with the world, surely, and there could be even a possibility, Sam muses, to grab a beer with Crowley, discuss Hugh Everett’s theories properly with him (God knows Dean is useless for this, and even Cas can never quite grasp the point of things) - there’s this paper which has been sitting in a folder of Sam’s laptop, collecting dust. It’s about Purgatory, really, but has been phrased as a research on ‘the moral implications of a Tegmark-model multiverse’. It could become a good proposal for a Ph.D., with the right _addenda_ and revisions.

“Another victory for _Team Free Will_ ,” says Crowley, dripping sarcasm, but there is a certain softness on his face as he looks at Cas and Dean slowly getting up, unwilling to let go of each other’s hands.

“What do you say, matching t-shirts too much?” he adds, turning towards Sam.

“Let’s go grab that drink,” says Sam trying, and failing, to sound stern and distant. “I’ll buy the first round.”


End file.
